


and the sun came up

by neverendingdream



Category: Hadestown - Mitchell
Genre: Character Study, Epilogue, F/M, Fix-It of Sorts, Post-Canon, idk what this is tbh but i've seen a fair number of hades & eurydice fics, no beta we die like eurydice when orpheus turned around, no capital letters here bc we're anticapitalism, of sorts, saw that tag on a tumblr post and im legally obliged to use it on all hadestown fics i ever write, so i wanted to explore the other pair livin (it up) on top, thats the law
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:13:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27988251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neverendingdream/pseuds/neverendingdream
Summary: these stories have a way of repeating themselves, of cycling just like the seasons. she makes the same choices. the same mistakes. he does, too. the stories go on, told and retold.tragedies, their tellers call them. do they ever learn? asks the rest.not for the sake of the story— she knows one day she'll wake up and it'll all have wound back to the start.but here, in the end after the end, the beginning before the start— epilogue, interlude, prologue, some amalgamation of all three— she would tell that audience that asks if they learn, we do, we do, we do. (ain't our fault the fates love a sad story.)(orpheus and persephone, in the world six feet above)
Relationships: Eurydice/Orpheus (Hadestown), Hades/Persephone (Hadestown), Orpheus & Persephone (Hadestown)
Comments: 14
Kudos: 19





	and the sun came up

**Author's Note:**

> hello im massively late but when i first heard about this musical back in the old days before the pandemic i knew it would absolutely ruin me and two weeks ago i finally caved and listened to it and now im in hadestown hell (aint no difference anyMOREE) and will never leave
> 
> this kinda just manifested in my brain when i shld've been studying and fell down an ancient greek wikipedia hole instead but anyway hERE WE ARE. orpheus and persephone and parallels and interactions between Them. idk if it makes much sense but i like to pretend it does
> 
> anyway here's to hope and new beginnings everyone <3 happy new year

Ὅσον ζῇς φαίνου  
μηδὲν ὅλως σὺ λυποῦ  
πρὸς ὀλίγον ἔστι τὸ ζῆν  
τὸ τέλος ὁ χρόνος ἀπαιτεῖ. _  
_

_While you live, shine_  
_have no grief at all_  
_life exists only for a short while_  
_and time demands his due"_

_-_ Seikilos epitaph

it ends like this (or perhaps the story's gone back to the start):

_orpheus? eurydice—_

_wait for me. I will._

when the train slows, even though they're within sight of the station, persephone doesn't need hermes' quiet murmured _'orpheus'_ to know which poor soul's crumpled like a dead man on the bare, dusty stretches of track, guitar abandoned, head bowed.

"aight," hermes says with a defeated sigh. "aight."

she doesn't know if it's for his benefit, hers, or the lad's.

he sounds the train whistle once before they stop altogether. the high-pitched sound's like a dreadful shriek in the silence. orpheus's head jerks up at the noise, and they're close enough to see the fragile hope in his bloodshot eyes wane as he scans each empty car.

 _'brother,'_ she wants to say. _'we're the only ones who ever come back.'_

when only she and hermes step off, she looks away before she can watch his face finally fall.

hermes approaches him first. she hears them exchange words, as if from afar. casts a look at the barren wasteland. the empty sky. wonders if anything ever changes at all. if spring and its new beginnings are a lie if the boy who'd brought them back couldn't himself be happy. when she looks down, her fingers are trembling, itching for the ghost of a flask. she clenches them into a fist, forces herself to look back at the world in front of her, at the boy who lost his everything.

"you wanna talk to him?"

she nods. hermes pats orpheus on the shoulder, then straightens from his crouch.

"don't come on too strong," he says with a half-smile. it sounds like he's sharing a joke with himself, but she grins back anyway, sauntering over to the two of them.

"you know me, brother."

"believe me," he replies, almost too soft for even her immortal ears, as she passes him, " _i do_."

throughout the exchange, orpheus doesn't move. only when she kneels next to him in the dust and takes his hand in hers does he raise his head. his expression's almost enough to break her heart all over again.

"alright brother," she says, more for her than for him. " _orpheus_. it's gonna be alright."

"lady persephone," he manages, beautiful voice mangled, run ragged and hoarse. "where is she? _how_ is she?"

she's silent a long moment, then pulls him close in a long, warm hug, heedless of the dust, the dirt, the tears tracking down his hollow cheeks. around their feet, flowers spring up through the cracks. across the world, she's made sure crops are growing, that the sun's come out and farmers and their families are fed.

but how do you tell a boy who's lost his heart that he managed to bring back the heart of the world? that she may be resigned to her fate, but he changed the fate of hundreds more? is this progress, she wonders. is this real change? is this hope? since when was it ever so heavy?

 _since long ago,_ her heart answers. _but we keep singing (living, loving, dreaming) anyways._

"brother," she says instead. "how long has it been since you've eaten? had a drink? i'll tell you about her over a proper hot meal, how 'bout it?"

his body's fragile as a bird's in her arms, nothing but bones and song. mortal, even if his music can shake the gods. she does not think him lucky to only have to suffer this separation twice in his lifetime. after all, that's not quite true. these stories have a way of repeating themselves, of cycling just like the seasons. she makes the same choices. the same mistakes. he does, too. the stories go on, told and retold.

 _tragedies_ , their tellers call them. _do they ever learn?_ asks the rest.

not for the sake of the story— she knows one day she'll wake up and it'll all have wound back to the start.

but here, in the end after the end, the beginning before the start— epilogue, interlude, prologue, some amalgamation of all three— she would tell that audience that asks if they learn, _we do, we do, we do. (ain't our fault the fates love a sad story.)_

it starts like this:

persephone guides orpheus into the bar and when the 'tender asks _'the usual, m'lady?'_ she gives him a tight smile, a little drawling _'nah'_ and stuffs back down the craving, sharp and vicious, pain that would've made her stagger if it weren't for her arm around orpheus's shoulders, leading him to a table in the back.

he collapses into a seat when she releases him.

"tell me about her," he says without preamble, before she's even settled into hers. "tell me about eurydice."

he says her name like a prayer, like the name of a god. maybe to him, that's what she's become.

she cocks her head, gives him a look. he's forgotten. eurydice may be his god, but he's still speaking to a goddess.

"food first, brother."

he wilts. she remembers a young girl dragging her feet through asphodel, who glanced back a hundred times over her shoulder even after the gates of the underworld had faded to black, who waited with ever-listening ears and an eager smile for a train's clear high whistle even as early as the first days of midsummer.

she softens.

"it's a long story— it'll be longer still on an empty stomach, and brother, your stomach's been waiting an awful long time."

he waits.

"she's doing well. as well as she can."

he exhales.

"alright," he says, more to himself than to her, and there's a new light in his eyes. "alright."

she orders. the food comes, hearty squash and potatoes and cornbread from the autumn's harvest, the last of the winter's stores, spring come just on time to replenish them. 

he stares at it for a long moment, watches the steam curl off the dishes, eyes how the table sags under the weight of the full platters.

"she'd like this."

if persephone were a few bottles in, she'd say: _'you won't taste nothing but ash, brother, if all you think of is regret.'_

if she were hermes, or anyone else, really, she'd say: _'look up brother. no use dwelling on the past too long. hundreds the world over are eating well 'cause of you. be proud. or happy, at the very least.'_

but she's not either. she's only a woman, who walks both sun and shadow, the taste of ash mingling with the sweetest nectar on her lips, who knows what it means when six feet under separates you from your lover.

she remembers a young wife's homemade dinner gone cold, gone untasted. she remembers a girl's fantasies of meals shared around a sunlit table by her, her love, and her mother.

she remembers, and says instead, with a small, wistful smile: "he would, too. only he hates his greens, even if he's married to the daughter of the harvest."

orpheus blinks, caught off guard.

"i-is that so?"

she laughs and swallows a spoonful of the soup, lets it warm the last of winter from her heart and bones.

"he loves his fruit, though. we grew an orchard-full down there, once. it won't be the same, but— I'll show her it next time, teach her to bake a meal as fine as this one. you'll be able to share a meal like that, too, someday. share many of 'em, in fact."

' _so many you'll grow sick of the taste, over the course of the next eternity. so dig in now,'_ she thinks but doesn't say, lets the unsaid hang in the air between them. he's good with words and music. she trust he knows how to read between the lines.

after a moment longer, he eats.

she counts it a small victory.

the meal passes in relative quiet. if not for the haunted look in his eyes, the shadows even a warm, full stomach can't chase away, the trembling of her fingers every time she swigs a glass and it's only water— if not for those.... peculiarities _(old scars, fresh wounds)_ , it could almost pass for normal.

"tell me," he says again, when the last dish's been picked clean.

at her silence, he hesitates. the intensity gripping him fades, just the slightest, and she catches a glimpse of the boy he'd been at the start of the story: he clears his throat, shifts a little, and when he corrects himself with a "please, and thank you, lady persephone," she has to swallow back a chuckle at the way his voice nearly cracks on the _thank_.

"ain't your mother," she says, gentling the rib with a genuine smile. "just persephone will do, orpheus."

what she means is they're the same, now. what she means is next time he descends, he won't have to make the trip alone. perhaps next time if he sings for the dead, it'll be from her side of the story.

"persephone," he corrects himself. "please. tell me about her."

she smiles again. and if this smile is smaller, more bitter, a little sadder, he doesn't comment.

"alright," she says. "alright."

she's had all meal to think about how to best tell the story, how to frame it. 'cause it's a tragedy, sure, for him, _for her_ , but it's more than that. it always has been. it's about changing fate, moving gods. it's about _hope_ , even if it might not feel that way in the moment, to him, to her, to the ones who're left above, to the ones who wait below.

she clears her throat, then begins to speak of the way things have been. the way they've changed, thanks to him. the wall coming down. the factories closed. families reunited. no more starving spirits, no more wage-less, wandering ghosts. a movement for freedom, fought for by the workers, by eurydice. a freedom fought for, and won. a freedom passed through hummed melody under cover of the din of machinery, quiet notes masked by pickaxe crash and rock fall, a living, breathing, angry thing that grows, even now, with each passing night. it rears its head. it raises its voice. it demands to be heard. and didn't you know? _the walls have ears._

down below, they don't sing _they came so close_ like a lament, they sing it like a prayer, like a light in the dark, a way forward in the endless night. they say, _if she made it that far, we can, too._ they say, _if she walked alone that far, we'd make it to the top walking hand in hand._ together they have strength. they have power. they wield it. persephone's hades rages 'til his anger's spent. he wavers. then, finally, he listens.

they fight for their freedom, and they win, and he lets them spin the underworld the way of the people's will. he lets them remember their old lives. lethe is a choice now, not a irreversible sentence. the damning contracts burn. instead of coal cars and oils drums, instead of radio towers quelling protest and spreading propaganda, he lets them sing. he lets them tell stories. they free the prisoners of tartaros and give them fair trial, rejudge their crimes, weigh them against the 'heroics' of war criminals sitting pretty in elysium.

"is this the world you once wanted? the story you once wanted spun?" hades asks one quiet night they spend together in her old garden, watching the walls of the last of the factories come down.

"nah," persephone says with a little shrug. "this is their world to spin. their story to tell. maybe it always was."

he watches her for a long moment, eyes dark, unreadable. then, quietly:

"what was our story, then?"

she meets his stare.

" _was_?" she repeats. "our story's right here. it ain't done."

"then, maybe my world's right here," he replies, soft. hopeful. "maybe it always was."

"maybe i always will be."

(when he reaches for her hand, she lets him take it.)

"do you remember the world you sang of once?" persephone asks orpheus now. "do you remember the world you once dreamed of?"

"orpheus," she says when he looks down at his empty plate and doesn't respond. "that dream may soon come true. maybe, in a way, it already has."

"what does it matter," he replies at last. "what's the use?"

unspoken: _what's the use if she's not here with me when it does?_

persephone sighs.

"don't waste your days in the sunshine pining after something that'll eventually come, brother." she says and maybe her voice is a little bitter, maybe her eyes are hard. but she knows what it's like to stand in the summer sun and only be able to think of the cold earth below. 

"next time it'll be a one-way trip."

"i know," she says even as he opens his mouth. "ain't that what you're hoping for? my husband himself wouldn't deny that, or stop you two from being together, after, and I'll make sure of it. but that train, no need to rush it— it'll come when it comes."

"you're still living. you're still breathing. that's all some in your shoes ask for." she says, and fixes him her most serious stare. "if it were her, wouldn't you want her to live a happy, long life first?"

"i..." he doesn't meet her eyes.

she sighs. reaches down to pat him on the shoulder as she moves to clear their dishes away.

"orpheus. you saved the world. here, up above, and down below. 'least you could do is see it. and right now, you got a chance to see it, a chance you won't get again. don't waste it."

"this isn't a waste," he replies, but not even he himself sounds convinced. "this is—"

"what?" she scoffs. "don't say penance. that ain't how it works."

"listen," she says. "everyone loses something down there, even the best of us. but you— what you lost wasn't just your girl. breathe the living world's air. feel the sunshine on your face. maybe you'll find it again, if you let yourself. that's your penance. that's what you owe to _you_ and no one else."

and maybe the penance is more than that. maybe it's walking the sun-filled fields alone, knowing your lover would smile at the sight, knowing you'd dance together, knowing you'd sing. in another life. in another world. maybe it's waiting and waiting until you find out there's more to life than waiting, only it's too late: you've waited so long the ripe, golden years of your life have shriveled away, and there's nothing left of you but dust. bitter dust.

but that was the world as it was, the world where she was angry and alone, where she found solace in the darkness at the bottom of wine bottles and the fog of oblivion it brought.

now, in the world that is, the world as it _could_ be, she'd like to think there's more than that, more than day bleeding into night into unchanging seasons, more than love forgotten over a drunken quarrel, remembered too slow, two days too late, more than storms and starvation caused by raised voices and doors slammed six feet under.

(there's him. there's her. there's a promise.

there's hope _._ there's heart.

it's a start.)

persephone leaves orpheus staring at the empty table in the back of the bustling bar. when she pushes open the doors, hermes is outside, leaning against the alley wall like he's been waiting for her.

"is he always like this?" she aks. he sighs, half-fond, half-despairing.

"yes."

"my guess is," he continues when persephone continues down the road and doesn't slow down, "he didn't listen."

"does he ever?"

"he's grieving."

"i know."

 _aren't you, too?_ she wonders. _aren't we all?_

"you gonna wait for him?"

she pauses. turns to throw him a glance over her shoulder, eyes hard and piercing. he meets her gaze. he shrugs.

"yeah," she admits, letting her breath rush out of her in a long, long sigh. she moves back to join him in leaning against the alley wall, head turned in the direction of the bar.

hermes and persephone wait in silence.

the last golden light of the spring evening fades to night. she's about to think, _no more point waitin' for a man who_ _ain't gonna show_ , about to turn on her heel and go, but then, he comes, guitar still strapped tight to his back.

"mister hermes," he says, and spots her, lingering further back in the alley's dark. "lad— _persephone_."

hermes tips his hat back, gives orpheus a long look.

"you alright?" he asks, gentler than before. "nah, don't answer that. i know you're not. maybe won't ever be, again."

"hermes," she starts, voice a low warning. he raises a hand, stops her, holding the boy's gaze.

"you won't ever be the same orpheus, but that ain't a bad thing, alright? people make mistakes. people grow. people keep singin', keep livin' anyway."

"i know," orpheus replies.

"i know," he repeats when the gods before him are silent, as if saying it a second time would make it sound any more true.

hermes sighs.

"no one's asking you to be that boy again. no one will. you've lost something you'll never get again, not while you're livin'. just, don't go chasin' ghosts anymore. no more standin' on railroad tracks. can you promise me that?"

"give me three days," orpheus says, and when he raises his head, there's a little of the old spark in his eyes. _touched by the gods, indeed_ , persephone thinks.

"three days are what a funeral would've given me to grieve. only—" he breaks himself off, bows his head again. _only, there ain't ever no body when hades comes a knockin' at your door._

"three days," hermes says, then nods. "aight. that's a start."

"three days," persephone repeats, finally stalks forward out of the shadows. "three days, brother, then what? offerings? a memorial service? a feast?"

"offerings," orpheus says, and tugs his guitar strap closer. "of a sort."

"for her?"

he smiles, still a little broken, still a little sad, but like hermes said: _it's a start._

"not just for eurydice— for the world," he replies. "the one we live in now."

he writes. he composes.

the first day, he asks the bartender about people who might've known her, towns to which she might've traveled. hermes follows the wind to track them down, to gather their stories. to listen. it takes them all night and until the second afternoon, but they follow him back to orpheus, with offerings for the dead, and end up watching in awe as the musician works. they nod their heads along to the beat of the melodies he plucks out. they talk of eurydice, of brief, but happy memories they shared. they talk of the past, of a world that needed changing, and the changed world, ushered in by his song, her voice, the hearts they'd won, a new era just begun.

persephone fills their stomachs, their glasses too, and they raise them up: to the world that was. to the world that is. to the world that _will be_.

they laugh, they joke, they sometimes cry. (and even with all the alcohol, she never once reaches for the empty flask on her hip. her cup stays dry.)

and when the sun's burning low in the sky, they light a fire of their own and gather 'round while persephone tells stories of the ones down below. this time when she fills her audience's glasses, they pour them out as offerings to the ones who came before, who walked so they could follow and forge paths of their own.

"they miss the world up here," she says, tries to not think too much of the way orpheus's gaze swings up from his guitar strings to hers. "brothers, sisters, fellows, our friends down under, they miss the clouds and fields. they miss the sky. or, at least. they _did._ "

"did?" someone echoes, incredulous. "now what do they do?"

"they build skies full of clouds and stars of their own. and maybe it's not the same as the sun up here, maybe some things are metal and coal-powered, and the light's sometimes too bright, but it's enough. it's a start. they took all that factory machinery and made it theirs. a little songbird's handy with tools. she showed them the way."

the guitar screeches. it's probably the first time the instrument's ever made such an ugly sound. she's tempted to laugh, only it means—

"orpheus," she starts.

"that songbird's name," he says, and he's on his feet, voice trembling, guitar fallen, music forgotten. "tell me. what is it?"

she smiles. a little bitter, a little sad.

"eurydice," she replies. _of course it's her._ "she misses you."

"she wanted me to give you this," she says, and holds out to him an undead metal flower, rusty shine burnt red by the firelight and the setting sun.

"it's you," he breathes to the rose, cradles it close.

(and if you believe in miracles, an _it's_ _me_ floats up, through brick and stone, from six feet under the ground.)

"you didn't give this to me when you first came back," orpheus says later, when it's just him and persephone and the fire's glowing coals. his eyes are wide, and he still cups the flower with all the reverence normally reserved for the olympian gods, but she doesn't fancy she's imagining the underlying note of accusation in his mild tone.

"i didn't," she agrees.

"why?"

"tell me the truth, brother," she says, skewers him with a look and stares deep. "you wouldn't have been satisfied with this two days ago, would you? it wouldn't have been answer enough. you'd still have been huddled on the dirt of the railroad line."

he bows his head, but not before she can catch a glimpse of tears tracking down his cheeks.

"you're right. you and mister hermes— you both were right. i could hardly face myself, then. there's no way i could've faced _her._ "

she nods.

"and now?"

he smiles down at the rose. soft, wistful.

"now it's enough to know we're still dreaming of the same world. we still both want it."

her smile echoes his.

"maybe that world you're talking about is already yours."

orpheus tucks the rose carefully into his lapel, then composes with a newfound energy for the rest of the night.

"persephone," he says, gently shaking her by the shoulder. she blinks herself awake to the morning's first rays of light.

"what," she mumbles. somewhere above her head, hermes chuckles.

"morning, sister."

"morning?" she repeats. their _third_ morning. "orpheus, is the song done?"

he grins, brief, but bright.

"yes."

his enthusiasm's infectious: she can't help but grin back.

"you gonna play it now?"

"yes," he replies, and strums a few chords, then turns his eyes to the sky.

"dawn," he murmurs. "it suits her. it suits this."

he takes a breath, strums a little more. then, he closes his eyes, and begins to sing, begins to play.

the world goes quiet, and his audience, too, as if they're all holding a collective breath, from the song's start, to the song's end. only when the last note's played, lingering, then fading, a quiet, hopeful chord, does anyone dare move.

even then, they move as one. they rise. they applaud him. they raise their glasses to him. they cheer him on.

the world, it seems, agrees. the trees bend their boughs to him, the river runs a little more merrily, and the wind dusts his shoulders and cheeks in warm, golden pollen.

"what now?" he asks, glancing around, eyes wide, eyes bright. for a moment, she's back down under again, heart in her throat, tears in her eyes, winged hope brought alive in the voices of hundreds, joining his to weave the melody of a love once thought lost.

there's not quite a hundred souls here watching, no one yet knows this tune, but. they're listening. there's tears in their eyes. she'll wager their hearts are in their throats. and ain't this hope, too?

there's hope forged by her down below. now, it's spun to life by him up above.

"you've shown them the way," she murmurs, places a hand on his back, urges him to stand up straight, to be proud, to believe in himself, in the world he sees, the world he dreams of.

"you can rest soon, orpheus. only, you got one more stop left in you?"

they stand in front of a weathered little cottage, well-maintained, but humble except for the garden, which takes up more space than the building itself, each bush in full bloom. she strides up to the door and presses her thumb against the bell by it, long and hard. the ring, clear and clarion, echoes through the house and beyond. when there's no response, orpheus fidgets. coughs. crumples and recrumples the sheets of music in his hands.

 _you like 'em broken, don't you?_ demeter says inside her head with a _tsk_ and sigh at a boy's worn workhat, his dusty boots and bleeding-heart eyes. memory twisted into something hard and bitter by old wounds, by time. she grits her teeth, tries to shake it away.

"ma," persephone calls, when the doorbell fades to nothing. it comes out angrier than she means. she tries again. tries to soften her tone.

"mama? it's spring. i'm home."

her only answer's silence. she bites her lip in frustration, ignores orpheus's hesitant _'maybe we should go,'_ and raises a hand to knock hard and loud on the cedar door.

but before her fist can touch wood, a voice interrupts her. stern and scolding, all-too-familiar.

"fancy that," demeter says, and they whip around. she's standing in the garden, one hand on her hip. "my daughter, here on time."

"mama," persephone starts, and finds her mouth's gone dry, finds she barely has the guts to talk to her without her liquid courage, a gullet full of wine.

"lady demeter," orpheus says instead. she casts him a grateful look, but his gaze is fixed on the hole he's scuffing with his dusty boots into the path's dirt. "we came to play you a song."

he takes a breath. raises his head. though his voice is soft and uncertain, his gaze is steady.

"we came to ask you to listen."

demeter smiles, big enough to include them both, brushes her hands down on her apron, then gestures to the door.

"alright, then. let's hear it."

"but first," she continues, "what's your name, boy?"

"my name is orpheus," he says, smile gentle, smile sad. "but this song's melody— it's called eurydice."

she may be gone, she may be waiting six feet down below, but the song's to honor her. to remember her. to make sure the world up above never forgets. and maybe it's a sad song, but there's hope in it, too. hope in a love that makes the world go round. a love that maybe even outlasts time.

(we're still singing it. we like to believe it did. it does. it will.)

**Author's Note:**

> so i was procrastinating on writing which was originally. the form of procrastination, and i was watching lindsay ellis and got hit with moRE hadestown feelings and this quote which will now live in my head rent free pls sob over it with me: _A well told tragedy appeals to the human desire: to hope._
> 
> i did a lot of wikipedia-only research for this fic so if ur an ancient greek either roast me or pls turn a blind eye,,,,  
> afaik. offerings are a thing. so are three-day funeral rites. everything else is just *waves hands* s y m b o l i s m  
> idk if the epitaph translation is accurate? i just took it from wikipedia and it seemed like it fit rly well and i can imagine persephone singing the lines in some post-credits reprise of livin' it up on top ~~which is basically what this entire fic is in my mind~~


End file.
